


Engine Blade

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, secret santa gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 04:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Noctis’ sword is the only real piece on display in the Citadel, and Nyx thinks it’s a perfect fit for the Prince.





	Engine Blade

The Prince was sixteen when he got his own Royal Arm. It was displayed in the armoury among all of the other pieces of the Armiger— the King’s own sword only a replica on the wall, gleaming above the rest of the display pieces and models with the pride of the kingdom shining across it. In comparison to the elegance of the King’s own designed weapon, the Prince’s seemed like a child’s plaything. It was clunky— the hilt a mash of parts and power that looked too unruly to really effectively wield. A flask secured in the collection of parts brimmed with the sparks of Lucian magic, captured and locked away, Nyx had once tried to figure out if the energy would be unleashed on use, or absorb from its targets on impact. 

His hand itched to test it. It was unruly and wild— a mess of Lucian parts and some mechanical monstrosity, cobbled together for the Crown Prince to navigate. The epitome of Lucian aesthetic gone awry; too modern and heavy and so easily dismissed as a show of modern confusion. 

But he saw the Prince in it. 

It had looked like a young man’s toy sword. But the edge gleamed under the light with the promise of sharp cuts and a deadly tip.

And the replica of King Regis’ sword shined in elegant difference. The height of the true Lucian identity— stiff lines and hidden detail emerging the more you looked, the curl and curve of master work, with all the threat that the throne could carry. Nyx had only ever seen that sword in action a few times. 

Noctis’ weapon was the chaos of youth. 

But beautiful. 

He thought of his own preferred knives, with the carved bones in the handles, the detail of the steel, the charms and marks and all the pieces of his own identity condensed into the tools that had saved his life time and again. He wondered if Noctis would ever carry that sword for the same reason— defence, protection, a show of strength. His knives had the same honed edge that the sword displayed above carried, and he wondered if Noctis would ever need to use it. 

“Don’t you have other things to do, hero?”

“Not a thing, little star.”

Noctis wasn’t the teenager who was gifted the ‘Engine Blade’ anymore. Not really. He was a young man who had trained with the comparable weight of the display piece. But he was certainly as chaotic; he stood tall and proud one moment— the straight, honed edge a threat to enemies, a show of strength to those who question him. But was lost in the clutter of identities he tried to wield around himself like his family’s Armiger— Prince, friend, individual, warrior, citizen. 

“We were supposed to get dinner,” Noctis reminded him with a nudge to his arm; “if you’re done staring at shiny things.”

“I was waiting on you.”

“You could have texted me. Saved me from my meeting.”

Nyx linked their arms, the gleam of the display weapons following them out to the polished stone of the hallways and out to the peace of the city itself. The armoury was not part of the tours— tucked away in the depths of the Citadel with the training rooms, behind the locked doors Nyx was increasingly suspecting was meant to keep the royals entombed rather than the common folk out. 

“What were you doing?”

“Just admiring the swords.”

“Right.”

“They’re nice weapons.”

“I don’t think that works as a sentence from a man of peace.”

“No, probably not.” Nyx grinned as he led the Prince away from the towers of his ancestral home. Away from the armoury’s locked doors and gawking citizens who meandered through tours in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the King (or the mask of elegance the prince detested). Away from the stiffness and ceremony and the identity that the Prince struggled to wield, even if it was a better protection than the chaos of youth. 

The city itself had settled into a sort of stasis for the winter, the chill funnelled through the heights of the buildings to freeze the lower streets and avenues. There was a set of side streets Nyx preferred, sheltered from the worst of the cold through a steady stream of foot traffic opening shop doors to let the heat escape. They walked through bursts of warmth, nearly lost in the crowd. The city rose around them the more they moved— the right light of winter and city life reflected at them from busy shop windows and brilliant advertisements. 

The city had always dazzled Nyx, to some extent. The decadence of the busy commercial avenues and the gaping maws of Lucian shop fronts. The royal greys and blacks did nothing to dull the polished look of the city centre— its lifeblood of traffic the most colourful aspect of Insomnia as people moved through fashions and uniforms and cultures. The colours of the refugees seeking a new peace had already bled into Insomnian culture here and there; marketed to the dull Lucians eager for a splash of exotic brights and spices. Nyx saw his own culture reflected back by the dull-eyed citizens in a pale imitation of festive lights and solstice charms. 

“Where are we going?” Noctis asked as the city closed in around them, and the music spilling out to the street started to change from the soft string of safe Lucian tastes to more lively beats. The sky started to darken, the blazing glory of the sun shadowed the deeper they moved, until only the lights twinkled around them like stars. 

“Someplace exotic.”

“Define exotic.”

“Galahdian.”

“So exotic to me,” Noctis teased, skipping a step or two to keep up with Nyx’s longer stride. “Comfort food to you.”

“Winter comfort food,” Nyx offered a grin, and paused on the pavement to get his bearings. Behind them, the Citadel still rose tall and proud over the city, the shadow of it stretched down the approach and avenue towards them. “Almost there. I think.”

“You think.”

“I think.”

It was easy to take Noctis’ hand and lead him away from the long stretch of Lucian shadow. It was easy to hold the Prince tight, to smile back at their joined hands or press a quick, stolen kiss to a palm when they stopped at a set of lights or a delayed crosswalk. He thought back to that sword settled so neatly on display back at the Citadel— pinned in place for scrutiny as much a show of power and work. He thought of the chaos in that designed, and the details wrapped around the hilt to mask the functionality in the flash of it. And despite it all, the sword was still just a blade— simple, elegant, and not meant to sit on idle display forever. 

He thought of the heavy weight of that blade, and wondered at its balance. If it could be truly balanced as it was. If it was as unyielding Lucian as it was meant to be, beneath the standard of royal elegance that had been displayed above it. 

With a playful kiss to Noctis’ wrist at the next light, he realised that he would rather never see that sword held by the Prince in battle. He would rather Noctis never see real war beyond the walls and ramparts of the shining city. No matter the steel in his eyes, even as they wandered the streets until they were wrapped and cloaked in the tattered colours of his home; “Let’s get you warmed up, little star.”


End file.
